


Sticks and Stones

by Evergreene



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:16:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1389076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evergreene/pseuds/Evergreene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times d'Artagnan was injured. And one time he should have told someone about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

'Sit still.'

'I am!'

'And stop fidgeting!'

'I can't help it!'

Constance sighed and readjusted her grip on the tiny needle. 'If you would just stay still-'

'Ow!'

Constance swore heartily as d'Artagnan wrenched his hand out of hers, causing him to look at her in wide-eyed amazement.

'That's it!' she exclaimed. 'I give up!'

'But, Constance-'

She shook her head and strode out of the room, d'Artagnan following behind her, with one hand clenched around his finger.

'If you aren't going to cooperate, I'm not going to help you,' she said, cursing again as a heavy knock on the door let her know that she had visitors. Ignoring d'Artagnan's injured look as she swept by him, she opened the door with more vehemence than was probably necessary so that it swung back on its hinges and hit the wall with a bang.

The three musketeers standing outside, however, seemed unbothered by her abrupt appearance.

'Good evening, Madame Bonacieux,' said Aramis, removing his hat with all the flair of his usual manners. 'May d'Artagnan come out and play?'

She glanced back over her shoulder to see d'Artagnan hovering in the shadows behind her, now sucking on his offending finger, presumably in an effort to ease the pain.

'He may,' she said, turning back. 'But - my apologies - I must ask for your assistance with something first.'

'We are at your service, of course,' said Aramis, delivering her a bow that was echoed by his companions.

She smirked. 'Well, I am afraid that poor d'Artagnan has a splinter,' she said, ignoring the betrayed exclamation that sounded from behind her, that was quickly followed by the sound of hasty movement. She stepped aside to let the already grinning musketeers enter before closing the door behind them and continuing. 'And I need your help to hold him down.'


	2. Chapter 2

'And I got this one in a tavern brawl.'

'Fascinating,' grunted d'Artagnan, doing his best to relax as Aramis cut away his trouser leg, revealing the ugly wound beneath.

'Aramis here sewed me right up though,' continued Porthos, rolling his shirt sleeve back down. 'Quick as a- damn, you're bleeding like a stuck pig! Does it hurt?'

'You are not helping, Porthos,' commented Aramis as he held up a short stick. 'Here. You will want to bite down on this.'

'Why would I ... oh, you mean him.'

D'Artagnan held up a hand just before Aramis placed the stick between his teeth. 'Wait. How badly will this hurt?'

'Considering that I am about to sear a deep hole in your leg closed with a knife blade that Athos is kindly heating up for us over a campfire, I would say rather a lot. Anything else?'

D'Artagnan swallowed and shook his head, lowering his hand back down and taking a grip that was nothing so much as desperate on the long grass beneath him. 'Never mind.'

'Good.' Wedging the stick firmly between d'Artagnan's teeth, Aramis glanced right and left. 'You've got him?'

Athos nodded silently and handed him the knife before taking a good grip on d'Artagnan's legs. Porthos, who was leaning over his arms, grinned. 'Ready and waiting.'

'You really do enjoy this type of thing far too much,' Aramis pointed out, pressing the blade down deftly and ignoring the muffled scream of pain as d'Artagnan seized below them, his back arching as he twisted and writhed, trying to escape the unforgiving hold they each had.

'What can I say? I enjoy seeing you butcher someone besides me for once.'

Satisfied that the wound was sealed, Aramis removed the blade and examined his work carefully before looking up. 'There now, that wasn't so bad, was it, d'Artagnan? D'Artagnan?'

Porthos shook his head. 'Now that's just embarrassing,'

Aramis reached for his pack and began picking through it. 'Now, Porthos, you're not to tease him about this. You're just as bad.'

'I've not once fainted!'

'That's because we always knock you out beforehand,' stated Athos, speaking for the first time as Aramis began wrapping d'Artagnan's leg with clean bandages.

'Oh. Well, at least I've never stuck myself with my own knife, not like he just did!'

'What of that time in Marseille?'

'I was drunk!'

'And you cried like a baby before you sobered up, so you will leave him alone.' Athos paused. 'Besides, he will be mocked enough by Aramis and I.'

Porthos grinned and gave the unconscious d'Artagnan a quick pat on the chest before standing up and stretching, working the kinks out of his back. 'That's all I ask.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading and I'd love to hear what you think of my d'Artagnan-whumping!


	3. Chapter 3

'I still do not understand how he managed to do it!'

'He...slipped,' said Aramis.

'Slipped?'

'Yeah,' echoed Porthos. 'He was running and there was some...wet grass.'

Treville eyed them narrowly from behind his desk. 'There seems to be a lot of that about these days,' he said dryly. 'And d'Artagnan always seems to come off the worse for it.'

The three musketeers remained firmly silent until finally Treville sighed. 'How long will he be out of action?'

'Three weeks,' admitted Aramis, twisting his hat in his hands.

'Three weeks!'

'At the least...'

'He only formally joined our ranks two days ago!'

'A fact of which we are fully aware and will do our best to reconcile as soon as he is able to use both arms again. And his leg.'

'His leg?'

'The...ah...grass...truly was very wet, sir,' explained Aramis innocently. 'But we promise, as soon as he regains the full use of his arms, his leg and the swelling goes down around his nose-'

With a heavy sigh, Treville leant back on his chair. 'You dared him to do something foolish, didn't you? And the idiot accepted?'

Athos cleared his throat. 'That rather depends on your definition of foolish, captain.'

'Get out of my office, the three of you.'

'Yes, captain.'

They trooped out in silence and the door was closed quietly, only to be opened again by Aramis, who popped his head in. 'I just wanted to assure you, sir, that we have already given d'Artagnan your best.'

'I appreciate that.'

'And he says thank you for the flowers.'

'What flow-'

The door slammed shut and Treville was left sitting there, rueing the day he was given captaincy of the King's Musketeers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last chapter ran away with me slightly, but I hope you enjoy this final bit of d'Artagnan whumping. Thank you to everyone for reading!

'Leave him be! Can't you see the man's wounded?'

'Man?' their captor scoffed, delivering another kick to the curled body on the barn floor. 'He looks like he should still be trailing around after his nursemaid!' He grinned, nudging d'Artagnan with his foot so he rolled over, revealing the dark stain low on his shirt. 'Besides, that wound's just the first of many I'm going to give him, isn't that right, boy?'

Athos raised an eyebrow, glancing over towards Porthos and Aramis, both of whom were bound the same as he against the wall. 'They never seem to learn, do they?'

Their captor scowled, twisting round to face them. 'Who do you mean, 'they'?'

Aramis shook his head regretfully. 'He really hates being called that.'

The man took a step towards him. 'Called what?'

Porthos heaved a heavy sigh. 'It just makes him angry,' he agreed. 'And you know what happens when he gets angry...'

'Who the devil are you talking about?'

D'Artagnan tapped him on the back of the shoulder. 'They are talking about _me_.'

In a few short minutes, their captor was unconscious on the floor of the barn, his hands and feet trussed together, and Athos, Porthos and Aramis were standing up, rubbing at their wrists as they tried to get some feeling back into their fingers.

'A nice day's work,' said Aramis approvingly, spying his hat over in the corner of the barn and walking over to collect it.

'If being captured and tied to a wall is your idea of fun,' said Athos wryly.

Porthos, however, nodded towards the barn door, which had been left open by d'Artagnan when he had disappeared outside to find the horses. 'That one's been quiet,' he said. 'Usually he'd be crowing about what he just did.'

The three of them exchanged glances, then headed outside in search of their young friend. They found him sitting on the ground outside in the late afternoon sun, slumped against a water trough as Athos's horse nosed at him. Aramis' and d'Artagnan's own horses were nibbling at some shreds of grass a few feet away, still saddled.

With a sly wink at the other two, Porthos strode forwards until he was crouched before d'Artagnan.

'Oi, lazybones! You can rest later. Where's my horse, eh?'

'I can see it through the trees,' Aramis called, squinting into the warm sunlight. 'Over there, in that second field.'

But Porthos had gone still. 'Aramis!' he bellowed suddenly. 'Get over here!'

The other two came running, Athos catching hold of his horse's trailing reins as Aramis bent over d'Artagnan, parting his shirt hurriedly to reveal the wound beneath. A moment later, he looked up, his face white.

'What is it?' Athos started, only to cut himself off as Aramis held up his bloody fingers. He stared at them for a moment, then jerked his head irritably, causing his horse to shy. 'Why didn't he tell us it was this bad!' he demanded brusquely.

'Because he's a bloody idiot!' growled Porthos.

'Can you help him?'

Aramis shook his head. 'I would need supplies. All mine were taken when we were first captured, I don't know where they are.' He peered at the wound again, taking in the angrily swollen flesh and the thin lines penetrating from it. 'There's no time to waste. We need to staunch this as best we can and get him to a town as soon as possible.'

'I'll take him on my horse,' Athos said, wheeling the beast about abruptly. 'Do what you can for him before we leave.'

As Aramis ripped some strips from his shirt and bound the sluggishly bleeding wound that stretched across d'Artagnan's ribs, Athos tightened his horse's girth and mounted. Without being urged, Porthos and Aramis levered d'Artagnan's limp form up so he sat propped in front of Athos, just before the saddle.

Athos looked down at his friends.

'Go,' said Porthos, clapping a hand to the beast's neck. 'We'll catch up.'

With a nod, Athos gave his horse a sharp kick, urging it into a gallop in a few short strides and taking a tighter grip on d'Artagnan, who let out a low groan before subsiding again. His lips a thin line, Athos glanced down at him, then rode on.

He had gone barely a mile before he heard hoofbeats that weren't his own, thundering along the packed-dirt road. Their horses unburdened by a double-weight, Aramis and Porthos had caught up quickly, Aramis on his own beast and Porthos riding d'Artagnan's.

'How is he?' Aramis shouted, riding as close as he dared to Athos to try to get a look at his passenger. Athos shook his head briefly and Aramis swore heavily as he urged his horse ahead to scout a path.

They rode onwards, easing their horses to a swift canter to allow them to breathe before galloping again, each of them glancing through the unfamiliar trees and fields for any sign of a town or village. But there was nothing, not until they came across a labourer out by himself, bent almost double under the load on his back as he made his lonely way home under the red light of the sinking sun.

Drawing their sweating horses to a halt, they wheeled them about, the dirt road flying under heavy hooves as the horses pranced impatiently, their blood up.

'Where's the nearest town?' Aramis demanded, reining back sharply.

But the man, his hair silver and face wrinkled from years spent farming the fields, was gazing at d'Artagnan, pale and bloody against Athos. 'Too far for that one,' he croaked matter-of-factly, though there was compassion in his ancient eyes as he looked up at them all.

'Did we ask for your opinion?' Porthos growled, but Athos shouted over him.

'Where is it!'

'Down the road, across the first bridge you come to, then left. But it's miles yet, young masters!'

'We have no choice,' Aramis said, tossing the man a bright copper coin that glinted as it turned through the air. 'And nor does he.'

They broke into a gallop again, urging their horses ever onward, following the dying sun as it cast its hue over the many fields of France. Finally spying the bridge in the distance, they took a diagonal line and cut across a cornfield to splash through the narrow river that bordered it, sending water droplets flying like bloody diamonds in the fading light, before bearing left, following the rambling path as directly as they could.

Finally, there was a shout of triumph as Porthos crested a craggy hill. 'Here!' he called back to Aramis and Athos, who were bringing up the rear. 'We've found it.'

Athos glanced down at the young man in his arms, trying to ignore his pallid breathing and the wetness he could feel spreading along the arm he had wrapped around d'Artagnan's chest. 'Come on, boy,' he murmured, as Aramis let out a grateful shout, having reached the top himself. 'Stay with me. We are almost there.'

And with that, he urged his horse the last few steps up the hill, hoping against hope that the sun now disappearing beneath the horizon would not be the last d'Artagnan would ever see.

\-----------

D'Artagnan opened his eyes to an uncomfortable mattress, a dull pain just below his ribs and the disapproving frown of the man sitting in a chair beside his bed, whose muddy boots were propped a few feet away from his face.

He grimaced, blinking away the gritty sleep in his eyes, his hands going instinctively to his middle. 'Where am I?'

'You are in Conques, a small village that is half a day's hard ride from the barn at which you collapsed,' said Athos evenly.

'Ah.'

When Athos did not say anything more, d'Artagnan busied himself with prodding gently at the thick bandages that bound his torso, hoping to at least put off the inevitable by not looking Athos directly in the eye.

It seemed to work, for Athos waited almost a full minute before speaking again. 'You were a fool not to tell us. There is nothing to be gained by hiding an injury.'

'When was I supposed to tell you?' d'Artagnan interrupted, irritated by the reprimand and even more so by how weak his voice sounded. He tried again, pleased when it came out stronger. 'Before that man had a pistol to your head or after?'

'You had ample opportunity to tell us after we were all free.'

'I didn't realise it was that bad!'

He gasped in pain as the mattress rocked underneath him as Athos stood up, shoving his chair back so violently that it clattered to the floor. 'That _bad_? We were a bare hour away from losing you!'

'Can you repeat that, Athos?' said Aramis mildly, walking into the room ahead of Porthos. 'I'm not certain they heard you back in Paris.'

'I give up,' Athos snapped, striding to the other side of the room. 'You try talking some sense into him.'

Aramis eyed d'Artagnan consideringly. 'His head's so thick, I'm not sure talking sense would do any good.'

Porthos clenched one of his fists and opened it again, flexing his fingers. 'We could always try knocking it in.'

'An excellent idea.'

Not quite sure whether the two of them were joking, D'Artagnan struggled upright against the pillows as they approached, only to find himself pushed firmly back down by Porthos' large hand on his shoulder.

'We'll make this simple,' Porthos said, leaning over him menacingly. 'You get injured, you say something, got it? Or you put all of us in danger.'

'Not to mention that having spent so much time training you, it would be a real annoyance for you to die and us to have to start again with someone new.'

D'Artagnan glowered at them both, letting his head sink back into the pillow. 'Good to know you care,' he muttered. 'But-' he lifted his head up again, ignoring Porthos' warning finger, '-if I hadn't taken out that man, we'd all be dead.'

'You almost were anyway,' said Aramis bluntly.

'Yeah. If we hadn't had the horses-' Porthos trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid and leaving d'Artagnan feeling a faint stirring of guilt for the worry he had caused.

'I'm sorry,' he said awkwardly, flicking a quick look over to Athos, who snorted darkly and turned to gaze out the window onto the street outside.

He turned next towards Aramis. 'Truly, my apologies,' he tried again, but Aramis just shook his head before going to set Athos' chair upright and taking a seat.

He tried Porthos last, gazing up at him. 'I say this on my honour, Porthos.'

Porthos shifted uncomfortably, then inched over to where Aramis was sitting. 'He's giving me the stare again,' he muttered, just loudly enough to be heard.

Aramis blinked. 'I thought I was the one with the stare.'

'Not that stare, you fool! _That_ stare! The kicked puppy thing.' Porthos scowled at d'Artagnan, then turned angrily to Athos. 'Athos, make him stop.'

'D'Artagnan, cease that at once. You know full well that Porthos is no good against that look.'

D'Artagnan subsided moodily back onto the pillows as Aramis tilted his head towards Porthos curiously. 'What's the difference between his stare and my stare?'

Porthos folded his arms and shrugged. 'You use your stare to woo the ladies. D'Artagnan ... he more guilts a person to death.'

'Which is more effective?'

'Why? Thinking of using it?'

'When you two have quite finished,' interrupted Athos. He turned to d'Artagnan, pointing a finger at him. 'You are to stay abed for the next few days and get some rest.'

'What are you going to do?'

Aramis jumped in, interrupting Athos before he could answer. 'The villagers are holding a celebration in our honour. It seems the man we defeated had been causing quite a lot of trouble for them.'

'You did tell them that it was I who fought him?'

'They are very grateful,' said Athos dryly. 'But you are also the one who, in the space of only two months, has stabbed himself in the leg-'

'-has put himself out of commission for over three weeks all of the sake of a foolish dare-' added Aramis.

'That was your idea!'

'-and you've nearly bled to death-' interrupted Porthos.

'-and, of course, we cannot forget the splinter,' finished Athos. 'So you will be staying right here. Aramis, do you have the key?'

Aramis held up a large bronze key that looked roughly the same colour, d'Artagnan noticed, as the lock on the door opposite his bed.

'Good. D'Artagnan, one of us will be back to check on you every few hours. I advise you to get some sleep.'

'We will try to keep it down,' added Aramis brightly. 'Though I cannot promise anything. Some of the villagers are quite excited about tonight.'

Forgetting his injury, d'Artagnan sat bolt upright, then cursed as a shooting pain lanced up his middle. 'You cannot mean to lock me in!'

'Watch us,' Athos stated and before d'Artagnan could protest, the three of them had exited the room, closing the door securely behind them.

Certain that they were joking, d'Artagnan stared at the door, expecting to see it open and for his friends to reappear, grinning and offering to help him up so he could join the party. Instead, he heard the lock on the door click soundly shut.

Furious, he slumped back on to his pillows and stared around the room, really taking it in for the first time since he had awoken. There was his bed, a chair, a dresser and .... an open window. With a grin, he shifted himself upright, clutching at his chest, and levered his legs off the bed before making his careful way over to it.

Holding onto the wall with one hand, he looked out onto the street, where he could see people starting to set up for the party.

He smirked. After all, how hard could it be to climb out a simple window?

\----------------

Pocketing the key to d'Artagnan's room, Aramis placed a hand on each of his friends' backs, guiding them towards the front door of the house they were staying in.

'I've got a good feeling about tonight,' he said confidently, then paused as a deafening crash sounded from the other side of the door he had just locked. It was followed by a violent curse and a muffled thump.

Athos took a deep, calming breath. 'Why did we not think to board up the window?' he asked no one in particular.

'Because we're not as stupid as some people who believe themselves invincible despite all evidence to the contrary?' Aramis suggested, taking the key from his pocket with a sigh and heading back towards the door.

'Sounds about right,' said Porthos. 'I'll go round the front, in case he actually makes it out.'

Athos nodded. 'And I will be right back.'

'Where are you going?' asked Aramis, jiggling the key in the lock as he tried to get it to open.

Athos grimaced and set his hat on his head. 'I'm going to get some rope.'


End file.
